The Devil's Work
by athousandelegies
Summary: As per their Arrangement, Crowley and Aziraphale run occasional errands for one another, to save time for the both of them. Thus we find an angel behaving rather deviously, and a demon actually doing good deeds (very reluctantly, of course). Aziraphale heads over to India, while Crowley hits the USA. Soon, however, Crowley finds himself missing the angel... Set in 2013.
1. Chapter 1

_The Devil's Work_

* * *

"_And then, of course, it had seemed even natural that they should, as it were, hold the fort for one another whenever common sense dictated. Both were of angel stock, after all. If one was going to Hull for a quick temptation, it made sense to nip across the city and carry out a standard brief moment of divine ecstasy. It'd get done anyway, and being sensible about it gave everyone more free time and cut down on expenses." _–Good Omens

* * *

**Chapter One: Snake on a Plane**

"I don't know about _this_ one, Crowley, I really don't think I can—"

"Oh come on, angel. You want _me_ to compel a billionaire to set up a homeless shelter where he was planning on building a casino. If I have to do that, I think you can handle urging a couple Indian ministers to accept bribes. Besides, the ones I've listed are already on the fast-track to corruption and scandal anyway; you're just giving them a little nudge to move things along, honestly."

"Well…all right. Fair is fair, I suppose. I did give you a few rather complicated jobs, after all."

"Great, so it's all settled. Let's have a few drinks before we go our separate ways, shall we?"

…

Crowley and the angel had far more than just a few drinks before parting; it would be a while before they saw each other again, after all. As the respective field agents of hell and heaven, they could hardly spend _all_ their time in England—though they hadn't let that stop them from spending the majority of the past two centuries or so there. The invention of the radio and then the television had made it easier than ever to keep an eye on everything even while staying in one place, but every couple of decades they did step out of the country to see in person how the rest of the world was doing.

This time they'd decided it would be most efficient if they simply split the world in half and each took respective hemispheres. Aziraphale had selected the East, saying it had been too long since he'd visited the Orient and that he wanted to see how dear old India was faring now that it was free from Britain. And Crowley had gotten the West, which suited him just fine.

…

Perhaps it was strange for a being who possessed a personal pair of wings to take a plane. But Crowley had done the whole 'fly all the way across the Atlantic' thing several times in the past, and it really wasn't pleasant—nowhere to land for a quick rest stop, and a view of boundless horizon that got very monotonous very fast.

Besides, air travel provided some really golden opportunities for a demon to make some mischief. Slipping a gun into the handbag of a sweet little old lady right before she passed through security; switching the destination tags on luggage so that a suitcase whose owner was headed for Berlin ended up in Peru; tripping people who were sprinting to reach their plane on time; shifting information on the flight schedule boards so that people ended up at the wrong gates—oh, it was a demon's paradise. Crowley hadn't had so much fun since he'd taken the angel to the Olympics last year.

And then there was the flight itself. All those people packed into a narrow vessel, stuck 40,000 feet above the ocean for eight long hours…Crowley had an ominous sort of grin on his face as he headed up the boarding bridge and into the plane. This was going to be entertaining.

…

Jennifer Watkins had been a flight attendant for many, many years. She'd seen passengers pull a lot of crap in her day. And she knew all the tricks to making them behave, to letting them think they were in charge even when she was the one running the show. Passengers who thought they were something special and wouldn't shut off their electronic devices when told, or who insisted on getting up to use the loo when turbulence was particularly bad, or who complained loudly about the fat man snoring in the seat next to them—she'd dealt with it all time and again. There wasn't anything or anyone that could throw her, Jennifer D. Watkins, for a loop.

This was her last flight before retiring from the job, and she wanted it to go perfectly smoothly. One uneventful final lap around the world before her flying days were over, that was all she asked.

She scrutinized the passengers as they headed for their seats. She was searching for the Troublemaker of the lot, the passenger whose seeming sole purpose of being on the plane was to make her life hell; there was one in every batch. The trick was to identify the Troublemaker before takeoff, and thwart his or her every attempt at subversion before it could cause a ruckus. Her gaze soon zoomed in on a well-dressed man with sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and sunglasses as he swaggered onto the plane. _Ah_. That was the one, no doubt about it.

She watched as he whacked someone in the head ("Ooh, _pardon_ me, a _complete_ accident of course, I'm so _clumsy_") with his suitcase as he lifted it into an overhead luggage compartment, and then spent a ridiculous amount of time shoving it in, causing a buildup of passengers still waiting to get into the plane. Finally he slipped into an aisle seat of the first-class section, positioning his elbow on the armrest so that it was sticking out and jabbing people as they walked past.

She was still watching as a harried-looking businessman stopped beside the dark suited one and said, "Excuse me, but I think you're sitting in my seat."

He turned his shaded gaze onto the man and drawled lazily, "Why don't you check your ticket again?"

The businessman pulled out his ticket and looked at it. He did a double take. "Oh. My wife told me she'd gotten me first-class," he said irritably; "I guess she got it wrong."

"Bad luck, buddy," the dark one said. "Guess that's what you get for trusting the missus, eh?"

The stewardess sighed; this guy was going to take Trouble-making to a whole new level, she could tell. But it was nothing that she, Jennifer D. Watkins, couldn't handle.

…

Crowley could sense the disgruntled atmosphere he'd already caused to develop in the plane, before everyone had even found their seats. He laughed to himself, thinking about how he already had some great stories for next time he saw the angel*, and he hadn't even gotten to America yet.

Throughout the safety lecture Crowley decided to have a coughing fit, so that the flight attendant had to contend with ridiculously loud hacks and wheezes to be heard. He could see her exasperation rising along with the volume of her voice, especially when his coughing miraculously subsided the second she had finished talking.

He watched in delight as she marched over to him.

"Do you require a cough drop, _sir_?" she said, her lips curled into a smile over gritted teeth.

"Oh, yes please, as many as you have!" he said brightly. "Just got a little frog stuck in my throat, you know how it is." And he coughed lightly into his hand; it sounded very fake.

Her smile didn't reach her eyes, which were glaring daggers at him. She left and came back with a handful of lozenges.

"Thanks a bunch, um…" he looked at her name-tag, "Jennifer. Can I call you Jen?"**

"I'd rather you didn't call me anything," she said, her smile still plastered on her face. "Now buckle up, we'll be taking off in a minute."

He noisily unwrapped a lozenge and popped it in his mouth as she turned and headed down the aisle to check that everyone had their seatbelts fastened. Those are some pretty high heels, he thought to himself. How does she walk without teetering? Especially once the plane starts moving, that'll be impressive. He made a lazy hand gesture at the stewardess's retreating form.

Suddenly one of the heels snapped, causing Jennifer to lurch forward and almost fall on top of a passenger as she grabbed at his armrest to catch herself. Crowley sniggered as she made some hasty apologies and pulled off her shoes, looking angrily at the offending heel.

As she returned down the aisle in her stockings, he said sympathetically, "Too bad about the shoe. They look pretty expensive. Jimmy Choo, right?"

She shot him an angry glance that she quickly turned into another stiff smile. "Yes, well, luckily I've got a spare pair," she said sweetly.

"Oh, what a relief that is," Crowley said as she walked on. He sucked loudly on his lozenge and grinned when he noticed the annoyed vibes of the man next to him.

The plane began to coast, and as it left the earth he turned to address his fellow passenger.

"Hey, I'm Anthony Crowley," he said, sticking out his hand.

The man took it. "Peter Wallace," he said. "You heading to the States on business?"

"Yep," Crowley said. "Now, just a heads-up, I get airsick pretty easily. But I'll try to lean to the right if I feel anything coming up, don't worry."

Wallace looked appalled. He pulled out the air-travel catalog from the seat-pocket in front of him and busied himself with reading it.

As soon as the plane had reached cruising altitude and the "fasten seatbelts" signal had shut off, he leaned his chair back (causing irritation to emanate from the rather portly woman in the seat behind him) and sprawled luxuriously in his seat, his left leg unmistakably intruding into Wallace's space and his left arm taking up the entire armrest between their seats.

Wallace shifted a bit and his foot hit Crowley's; annoyed to find a leg encroaching in his personal space, he cleared his throat pointedly. When the demon took no notice, he cleared it again, a bit more loudly.

"Oh, where are my manners, Wallace? …Would you care for a cough drop?"

Crowley closed his eyes and basked in the enmity that was rolling off of Wallace's aura in waves.

He only opened them again when a pretty blonde stewardess, not the one from before, came with the trolley to take drink requests.

Crowley chose the least disagreeable brand of wine that the plane offered.

"How about you, Pete—you don't mind if I call you Pete, right?—do you want a drink?"

Wallace deliberately ignored the demon and addressed only the stewardess as he ordered a whiskey.

Crowley considered "accidentally" spilling his drink on Wallace's lap, but changed his mind with a shrug; it wasn't very good wine, but no point wasting it like that.

…

Crowley enjoyed the rest of the flight thoroughly. He willed a handful of bladders to fill themselves to bursting, causing a fidgeting and impatient queue to form at the bathroom in the back. When the in-flight meal was served, a child announced loudly that she had found a fly in her scalloped potatoes and no one had much appetite after that. As night fell and passengers began to try and sleep, he had a baby several rows back begin to fuss (when its cries began to annoy him, though, he made funny faces at it from down the aisle until it calmed down). All passengers who ventured from their seats exposed themselves to sudden bouts of clumsiness; there were several bruised knees and a bumped head or two as the trip went on.

Jennifer D. Watkins was horrified by all the chaos that was occurring on _her_ plane. How could one flight produce so many injuries, contain so many vocally petulant passengers, and generate such a preposterous number of small arguments that nearly escalated into all-out rows? And all the while the dark suited passenger in first class made snide comments as she hurried back and forth past him. She was certain that he was so smug because he enjoyed the commotion...and an instinctive part of her mind even had the niggling feeling that he was _causing_ it. But she shrugged it off—after all, how _could_ he, from his spot in the front of the plane, have had anything to do with the turbulence that caused an overhead compartment all the way in the back to spring open and rain luggage down on her head? But whether he was responsible for the tumult or not, there was something about him that made her dislike and distrust him for no real reason she could pinpoint.

When the aeroplane landed in New York City at last, she heaved a sigh of relief. Her final flight had not gone nearly as smoothly as she'd hoped, but it was over now.

All the passengers were more disgruntled than even such a long flight could merit as they filed haggardly from the plane. Only one, her Troublemaker in his crisp dark suit, wasn't yawning and sullen as he got his suitcase and headed for the exit.

As he sauntered past Jennifer, he turned to her and lowered his sunglasses. She almost gasped out loud as she took in a pair of luminous yellow eyes with pupils that were slitted, like a cat's...or a snake's. He winked at her, and then the shades were back in place and the dark figure had swaggered off the plane without a backward glance.

* * *

Footnotes:

* Aziraphale always pretended to disapprove of Crowley's recounted misdeeds, of course; but after a few drinks the angel would stop his perfunctory scolding and laugh uproariously instead.

**People didn't like it when strangers gave them nicknames; Crowley knew from experience. Bad accidents happened to people who dared call the demon Tony.

* * *

Author's Notes:  
My first multi-chapter story, yay! I hadn't intended for this to be more than a quick fic, but as always seems to happen my words got away from me. So it'll consist of a handful of fairly short chapters. I'm working on the second chapter now, and hopefully I'll get it up pretty soon!


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Notes: Part two is here, yippee! See, that wasn't so very long, was it? The third part might be a bit longer in coming; I'm headed to England on Tuesday, but maybe I'll get it done this weekend, who knows? This chapter doesn't have quite as much pure crack as the first one did, especially near the end, where Crowley gets a bit sentimental over the human race. But I quite like it. Anyway, thanks for reading this, and reviews are welcome!_

* * *

**Chapter Two:** **Eden's Serpent Takes on the Big Apple**

"Hey, angel. Just checking in with you, to make sure you landed safely."

"Oh…How sweet of you, my dear," Aziraphale said; and the demon could hear the suspicion in his counterpart's voice. He grinned.

"Okay, I really just wanted to know if you did your first job."

Aziraphale sighed. "Yes, yes, I planted the dead bomb as soon as I arrived at New Delhi airport. I confess I still don't see what the point was, though, seeing as it didn't actually blow anything up."

"That's the beauty of it, Aziraphale. It doesn't have to _kill_ anybody to cause a whole flood of mayhem," he explained. "They'll find the bomb and it'll cause a huge panic. Then they have to search for the perpetrator, and there will be a big terrorist scare and all that jazz."

"Erm, what was that about jazz?" Aziraphale asked, confused.

"Nothing, angel," Crowley sighed, running a hand exasperatedly through his hair; "it's just a saying. Let me continue, will you? I'm just getting to the good part."

He flopped onto his hotel room bed. Hmm, he'd have to call room service to get some more pillows.

"Okay. Next come the long term gains," he continued excitedly. "They'll have to up the security on the place a hundredfold, which of course causes inconvenience for everyone passing through the airport for years and years to come." He sprang from the bed and paced the suite gleefully. He hoped the angel appreciated how well designed his plan was. "And inconvenience leads to a whole heap of bad feeling—with one false bomb I just scored decades' worth of plaque buildup on the souls of everyone who uses that airport from now on." He grinned at the cell phone in his hand, waiting for his counterpart to respond.

"Oh…wow," he said, a tad worriedly. Crowley could just picture Aziraphale tugging on his curls, a nervous habit of his. "When you put it like that, it really sounds very bad…"

Crap. He'd overdone it in his desire to brag; now the angel was feeling guilty. He hastened to make repairs. "Well…it really wasn't _all_ that bad. Nobody died, right? And here, think about it this way: with security heightened, any terrorist who really does want to blow up New Delhi airport will have a hell—er, a heck of a time sneaking a bomb in. …In fact, you know what," Crowley said, becoming convinced himself, "you could even report it to _your_ side as a success too! It's a win-win situation, really—I get that patina of corruption that comes with people having to wait in long lines, and you might just have saved future lives from a real bombing."

That mollified the angel. "All right then, Crowley. I'm just about to enter an orphanage now, so I have to get going. The man in charge has been using a large percentage of the support money to buy himself new cars and summer homes and gifts for his lady friend. Wish me luck on getting him to repent his wicked ways, if you will, my dear."

"Good luck then, angel."*

"We'll keep in touch, all right?" Aziraphale said, and hung up.

Crowley called room service and requested more pillows, and for good measure he ordered a huge meal and dessert. And pulled two measly American dollars out of his pocket to serve as the tip. That would make the staff sufficiently annoyed.

As he waited he looked out the window, which offered a decent view of much of the city. Good old New York, New York. The City that Never Sleeps, that was his kind of town all right. Well, _he'd_ be doing some sleeping tonight. But he'd be up bright and early to get to work on making his own particular mark** on the city. Early to bed and early to rise, helps a demon dream up more wiles and lies, and all.

He began mentally planning how he'd spend his day. He'd hung around London too long; he'd forgotten how energizing it was to have a whole new city to work with—all the poor, unsuspecting people who had never even heard of Anthony J. Crowley. He smiled, his too-sharp teeth glinting in the light streaming in from streets outside. It was high time he introduced himself to the Big Apple.

…

Crowley was up and about in time to meet the first wave of people heading to work. He set about making as many of them late as he possibly could. With a gesture he set traffic lights so that they stayed stubbornly red, causing awful traffic jams. Pedestrians became ridiculously clumsy after he had passed them by, stumbling into each other and dropping briefcases that released papers into oncoming throngs of walkers. He strolled along, smirking at the messes he left in his wake.

After an hour or so he decided he could use a break and descended into the metro. He caused the turnstiles to seize up after he'd gotten through them, to the frustration of those still trying to get past. The compartment he entered was fairly empty, so he settled himself down by a window and watched the slimy walls flashing by. There were fat rats lurking in the shadowed tunnels, and he amused himself by carefully inserting into their rodent minds the urge to go and amass at stations to terrorize the people boarding and exiting the subway trains. Then he watched his fellow passengers, waiting for an opportunity to coax their quiet conversations into heated arguments.

When he'd returned to the streets above, the sun was blazing high over New York City. He was near Central Park, and he ambled into it. There was a pond, with ducks, and for Aziraphale's sake he purchased a roll from a kiosk and threw them crumbs. He contemplated ringing up the angel, but decided he shouldn't bother him so soon after he'd last called.

The sun felt good, and he slipped off his suit jacket and settled onto a bench. People, mostly in pairs and holding hands, passed by sporadically. He thought about stirring up some trouble, but he took a nap instead.

He awoke with a strange feeling. Groggy, it took him a moment to realize that someone had their hand in his trousers pocket, trying to pull out his wallet.

In a lightning movement his hand was wrapped around their wrist, nails digging into their skin, causing them to yell out in pain.

"Jussst what do you think you're doing, pal?" he hissed.

It was a man in tattered jeans and a grubby t-shirt, and squirm as he might he couldn't escape the demon's iron grasp.

"Look man, I'm sorry, okay, I'm sorry! I didn't mean any harm, I swear!"

Crowley's mind flashed through all the different horrible things he could do to the man. But the bugger looked so scared…he sighed.

"Yeah, well…tell you what. Here's thirty bucks, go get yourself cleaned up and get an interview at some restaurant or somewhere. You'll get the job, take my word for it, and then you can cut the pickpocket crap. You suck at it anyways."

The man's eyes widened as he took the proffered money. He didn't say anything, just nodded and hightailed it out of there.

Crowley humphed and rearranged his limbs on the bench, crossing his arms. He _hadn't_ done that out of the goodness of his heart, of course—he could count it as one of the minor good deeds the angel had assigned him.

…

Crowley spent another week wandering through the various areas of NYC, spreading mayhem wherever he went. The angel had put charity to beggars on his list of jobs to do, so he often put a few dollars in their caps as he passed by—but he tried to choose those he sensed were using the money they collected for drugs.

One sunny afternoon found him eating lunch on a pleasant outdoor patio overlooking the Hudson. There were only a few other diners out there, including a couple at the table next to him. They were bickering amiably over whether or not to order dessert.

He leaned over to address them. "Aw, go on and listen to the lovely lady," the demon said. "Try the apple walnut cake, it sounds delectable."

"Well, all right," the man said, while his wife smiled appreciatively. "What's the harm in a little cake?"

Crowley smiled in agreement, thinking of how thickly-coated the man's arteries already were.

He himself was enjoying his angel cake when the woman started kicking up a fuss.

"Henry? Henry! Oh God, someone help us, he's choking!"

Crowley looked over. Sure enough, the man's hands were clutching at his throat and he was gaping silently, his face slowly turning blue.

By this point there were no other diners on the terrace; it was just the three of them. Crowley watched as the woman attempted to perform the Heimlich on her husband and let out an exasperated sigh. She was doing it completely wrong.

He watched guiltily as Henry's face got bluer. Groaning inwardly, he stood and pushed the woman out of the way. He wrapped his arms around the choking man's ample waist, searching for the base of his sternum. He pushed.

A large fragment of walnut shot out and flew off the terrace, into the tranquil waters of the Hudson.

Henry gasped for breath, and his wife looked up at the demon, gratitude in her eyes.

"Oh, bless you, bless you!"

"Oh, come on, _that's_ hardly necessary," Crowley muttered, wincing.

When he had managed to slink off at last, he spent the rest of the afternoon causing minor mischief, but his heart wasn't in it. He just didn't feel much like a demon. _Saving lives?_ And without the angel nagging him into doing it, even! What pitiful excuse for an agent of hell _did_ that?

He cheered up a little after he got peckish around midnight and discovered a sushi bar that reminded him of the one he and Aziraphale frequented back in London. It even had a pretty decent wine collection.

When he exited the restaurant it was already past one. Strolling down Fifth Avenue, he saw the Empire State Building looming before him and decided on a whim that he should try his hand at playing the tourist. He strode into the building with all the aplomb of one who knows there isn't an officer or guard alive who can stop him and slipped into an elevator with a group of tourists headed for the observation deck.

He considered causing some sort of commotion in the lift, but decided he was off-duty for the night. In only a minute they had reached floor 102. The doors slid open and everyone filed out.

There are two observation decks on the Empire State Building, and this was the higher and smaller of the two. It _was_ high, very high, and the view was breathtaking. But the crowd jostling him as he looked out at the expanse of city spread out before them made it difficult to enjoy. And, well, he'd flown higher.

He looked up. They were on the top floor, but they still weren't anywhere near the building's zenith; it tapered off to a point some two hundred feet overhead.

This was the last tour group of the night, and when everyone was herded back into the elevator at two, Crowley stood concealed in shadow until all were gone. Then he took off his jacket—it was one of his favorites and he didn't want it torn—and unfurled his wings.

The wind whipping around the building was like pure bliss as it rustled through his feathers, which had been kept cooped up for far too long. Sighing appreciatively, he spread his wings, crouched his legs, and with one powerful down stroke he took to the air. He wheeled around the Empire State Building, up and up until he'd reached the tip of its spire. He settled down at the foot of the lightning rod that jabbed straight up into the sky as if to touch the stars.

The wind was fierce up here, but it knew better than to try and unseat the demon from his ledge.

The moon was a waxing gibbous, just one sliver away from being full, and it glowed ghostlike before him, hovering above the haze produced by the city. It really was a pretty skyline, Crowley thought. Not like London, completely different from London of course. But he could see the allure.

He watched the people passing like ants on the pavement below. Smaller than ants, actually, from this height. Like the swiftly-fading footprints of a flea. Those tiny insignificant human beings were going about their business without a thought for the demon that was looming high above them.

Humans. They hurried along the streets and rushed through subways and repeated the same humdrum tasks day after day in buildings that scraped the sky, all simply living their lives and leaving their faint marks on the world and fading away into dust.

Sitting there, as he looked down from his ledge the way he used to look down from the clouds of Heaven such a very long time ago***, Crowley felt a pathetically un-demonic surge of affection for the entirety of the feeble, fleeting, funny-looking, beautiful human race fill his being. There was something so endearingly _human_ about humans.

He thought back to that day over twenty years ago (two decades already? How time flew) when he'd stood side by side with the angel to face Satan with no more than a sword and a tire iron and sheer obstinacy as their weapons. It had been idiotic, downright suicidal, and yet it had felt…right. One thing a demon should probably avoid feeling at all costs is "right," but he didn't mean right in a moral sense. He meant that it had felt like the one thing that he, Crowley, could do in that situation while still remaining _Crowley_. Standing with Aziraphale in a foolhardy last stand to save the planet had defined him as a being that was more than a demon, more than just another agent of the Abyss.

He had fallen in love with Earth and all the people in it, with their crazy ambitions and silly dreams and nifty inventions, just as the angel had. More than Hell, more than Heaven, more than anywhere else in the entire universe, Earth was where they both felt at home.

Watching the traffic below, the steady flow of the headlights looking like blood pulsing through the veins of the city, he thought of how scared he'd been that day. And he smiled, knowing that even if the Apocalypse _had_ happened, even if Satan had erupted from the ground and blasted both of their sorry arses into oblivion, Crowley still would have stood there, with the angel, where he Belonged. This planet, these people, were worth it.

As the dawn spread its rosy fingers across silver skyscrapers, a figure with a spectacular pair of immaculate wings seated some 1,450 feet above New York City was gazing downward. His magnificent feathers seemed almost to glow with an inner radiance as the morning light hit them. If anyone had been able to catch sight of him, they would have sworn they were looking at a guardian angel, keeping watch over the city's inhabitants from above.

Footnotes:

*Not that he thought for a moment that Aziraphale needed any luck to "persuade" anyone to repent—he himself had been on the receiving end of Aziraphale the Principality's righteous wrath often enough in the days before their Arrangement to know that the angel could convince anyone to do anything when he was in the mood to do so.

**One of turmoil and misery for all unfortunate mortals who crossed his path, naturally, or so he liked to think. In reality his "mark" tended to be more similar to that which an alcoholic with a fondness for pranks might make—a bit of havoc, some spilled wine that left people shaking their heads resignedly, but no major harm done.

***It was a memory he didn't often think about, from a time before Hell had existed. He'd had a different name then, not Crowley, not even Crawly...but he couldn't remember what it was anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Shelter the Homeless, Visit the Sick**

"Come now, Mr. Klima, think of the children," Crowley intoned listlessly, picking a speck of lint from his sleeve. "If you don't build this shelter, why, just imagine them, huddling in the streets with the rain pouring down on their heads."

"Well…it really doesn't rain that often in Nevada, Mr. Crowley," said the thickset man in the pinstripe suit. He seemed to be focusing less on the demon's words and more on the snakeskin-clad feet that were currently resting on his extremely expensive mahogany desk.

"Good point," Crowley conceded. He was getting bored. He'd been trying to persuade this prat for, how long now—he glanced at his watch—eight whole minutes. That was way too long, in Anthony J. Crowley's book.

To Klima's relief, his dark-haired client* removed his feet from the desktop, leaning forward in his seat. His relief was not long-lived.

"Mr. Klima, are you aware that the current course of your actions is sufficient to damn you to an eternity in Hell?" Crowley asked pleasantly.

"Um…what was that?" Klima was certain he'd heard that wrong.

"Oh, you heard me."

And suddenly there was not a darkly suited man in the chair across from Klima, but a beast straight from the land of nightmare—a snakelike monster with terrifyingly long fangs and gruesome scaled wings and fiery yellow eyes. Klima opened his mouth to scream, but no noise came out.

A minute later, a man-shaped being sporting a dark pair of sunglasses and impeccable taste in clothing was stepping calmly out of Randal Klima's office. He turned back to address the figure cowering on the carpet before closing the door behind him. "Thank you for your generosity."

As he headed out of the building, Crowley dialed a number, the only one listed on his smartphone's speed-dial.

"Hiya, angel. Mission: 'get rich twat to build a homeless shelter' has been accomplished."

"That's wonderful, Crowley. How did you convince him?" The demon smiled; it sure was good to hear Aziraphale's voice again.

"Oh, you know," he said nonchalantly, "I just talked to him mostly. You know humans, it doesn't take much for them to experience a change of heart."

If Aziraphale doubted him, he didn't say so. "It's good to hear. Surely he must see that a homeless shelter will be infinitely more beneficial to his soul than a casino could ever be."

"Oh, yeah, I'm pretty sure I got that message across to him." Crowley smirked. "So what have you been up to?"

"Well, I've been everywhere from Lucknow to Bangalore. India is an enchanting country; so many snags to be worked out of course, but it really is beautiful. Tomorrow I'm flying down to Sri Lanka, then I'll skim over Malaysia and some other islands and I should end up in Australia by next week."

"Australia," Crowley repeated. "Now there's a country that's experienced a major makeover since I last visited. It's been a few hundred years for me; when was the last time you've been there, angel?"

"I popped over there while you were napping in the nineteenth century, to see the penal colonies. I did what I could to relieve tensions in the relations between settlers and the indigenous populations." He sighed. "_That_ was a disaster."

They chatted for quite a while longer, and though neither would admit it the reason for this was that they were both enjoying the company of the other too much to hang up.

Crowley told the angel what he'd been up to in the past few weeks. After New York he'd skirted the eastern coast, lingering in several smaller towns to cause insulated chaos in their isolated community bubbles, and eventually he'd ended up in Miami. That had been a blast. Apart from all the opportunities such a hodgepodge of commerce and culture provided a demon looking to make some trouble, he'd also hit the beach. "Sunshine like you never get back in London, angel, and sand as clean as snow. Hey, you make sure to take a break every now and then too, all right? The world won't fall apart because one angel decides to spend an afternoon sunbathing."

"Well, all right dear, but…there is so much to be done." Aziraphale sighed. "So many souls breaking, so many people for whom a single touch could bring a world of good. Sometimes when we're in London, I forget that, and I forget that I have so much power to heal them. ...If only I could reach out to them all…"

"Hey angel, no worries, you're doing fine." Crowley could tell his friend was feeling discouraged, and he wanted to do what he could to cheer him up. "You know, there are humans on the job too, helping each other. They may not be able to work miracles, but they do what they can. So you can afford a break occasionally." He paused. He didn't want to sound like he was nagging, but truth be told he was worried. When Aziraphale got into these charitable moods, he tended to leave himself completely spent. "We may be beings of angelic stock, but we've been in physical bodies for so long…we aren't _tireless_ anymore, are we, Aziraphale?"

Though they were on opposite sides of the world, Crowley could see the angel's small smile and the nod that caused his curls to bounce as clearly in his mind's eye as if they'd been standing face to face.

"You're right, dear. Don't worry about me, I promise I won't overexert myself."

"Okay, great. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to take a look around the City of Sin."

…

One might be surprised to learn that there really isn't much for a demon to do in Las Vegas. But upon further thought, it made sense. Visitors to Vegas didn't need any supernatural being tempting them to gamble, commit adultery, or drink themselves into oblivion. They did it just fine by themselves. The sheer magnitude of the depravity was enough to make Crowley a bit nauseous, to be honest…not that he didn't approve. Yes, yes of course he approved.

He only stayed a night before moving on to Texas.

A week later he'd made his way to Hollywood. The place made him a little uncomfortable—he always prided himself on being the most fashionably dressed person in any given location, but here expensive, well-tailored suits and designer sunglasses were commonplace. It was harder to make the impression on people that he usually did, harder to intimidate and impress. But he was there with a specific plan in mind…Ever since he'd first stepped into a cinema and stared in wonder at the figures moving magically across the screen, he'd entertained a secret dream of being an actor.

It wasn't hard to sneak onto a set, not for a demon. He'd considered being simply an extra, standing in a crowded background or something. But he decided he wanted a speaking role, just so there was no way Aziraphale could miss him (because of course he wanted the angel to be witness to his fifteen minutes of fame).

It didn't take much effort to convince the director that hiring Crowley on the spot was in everybody's best interests. He was in one scene, with just one line, but that was good enough for him.

He couldn't wait to see the look on the angel's face when the movie came out.**

That night he realized that he hadn't completed any tasks from his to-do list for Aziraphale in a while, so he pulled it out and looked it over. Feed the hungry…check. Shelter the homeless…check. Visit the sick…there was one. He'd pop in at some hospital tomorrow and take care of that job, he decided.

…

"It's always wonderful to have volunteers," the nurse babbled as she led him down a corridor that reeked of disinfectant. "Do you have any preferences about whom you visit today?"

"No, no preferences, just take me to a patient who hasn't had many visitors lately, I guess," Crowley said, wrinkling his nose at the excessive cleanliness*** of the place. He hated hospitals.

The nurse glanced at her clipboard. "How about I take you to visit Edith? Her husband just passed away a year ago, and she has no children, so I'm sure she'd love a guest."

"That works," Crowley answered.

"She suffered a stroke a few months ago and she's been here ever since," she chattered on. "She's simply too old to recover fully, and she's very weak, poor thing. But her mind's still as sharp as anything, and she's a darling."

The nurse led him into a room that was even more sterile than the hallway, if that were possible. Yet it felt musty, empty…lonely.

There was one hospital bed, with crisp white sheets surrounded by various medical devices that filled the room with a low and steady hum. A withered woman lay in the bed, an IV attached to her arm. Her face was turned away from the door, towards the tiny window.

"Edith, you have a visitor! This is Mr. Anthony Crowley."

The woman turned. Her gaunt face was a mass of wrinkles framed by silver wisps of hair, but the brown eyes set deep in her skull were energetic and sparkled as she favored him with a small smile.

"What a wonderful surprise," she said. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Crowley."

"Pleasure's all mine," he responded, moving towards the bed as the nurse gestured for him to sit in the chair that was beside it.

"Ooh, English, are you?" Edith grinned at his accent.

"I've got to do my rounds," the nurse said to Crowley; "Will you be all right if I leave you two to chat for an hour or so?"

"Yeah, go ahead," the demon said, and she bustled from the room.

"I hope you won't be offended if I don't sit up for you, young man," Edith said. "Today is one of my tired days, I simply don't seem to have any energy."

"That's fine," he replied. He felt awkward; what was he supposed to talk about with an old lady? Did this really count as caring for the sick? And her remarkably piercing brown eyes were gazing at him in a way that made him feel like fidgeting.

"Why don't you remove those sunglasses, young man?" she said. Being a demon and all, Crowley had never had a grandmother, but he imagined this was how she'd address him if he did. "We are indoors, after all; you're hardly likely to be blinded by the sun."

"Oh, well, I've got an, er, an eye condition…" Crowley mumbled, but she was giving him such a stern look that he complied.

She took in his strange eyes silently for a moment. Then she spoke in a matter-of-fact sort of tone: "Been that way all your life?"

"Er…yes."

"Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of, young man, they're very unusual but they aren't hideous you know."

He thought about insisting that he wasn't _ashamed_ of them, but somehow he thought it would sound rather childish. So he said nothing.

"Well, Mr. Crowley, if you aren't going to engage me in conversation I suppose I'll have to begin. How long have you been in America?"

He talked to her about his travels from the last few months, acting as though it were a road trip of sorts and leaving out his various misdeeds. She was a keen listener, and after he had finished she began to tell him about travels of her own, "from younger days."

Her husband had been named Vincent, and she spoke lovingly of him. In spite of himself, Crowley found that he liked this feeble old woman with her quick tongue and nostalgic tales. She'd been a lover of pranks in her past, and he laughed genuinely at stories she told of all the many jokes she'd played on Vince, and he told her about some of his own tricks in turn. Some of her recounted exploits were pure gold, and he stored them away in his memory to try himself some time.

After one particularly hilarious account, he said between sniggers, "Edith, you are a woman after my own heart, you are."

Halfway through telling him about her wedding day, Edith began coughing and couldn't stop for several minutes. Her voice had been growing weaker, and this fit worried Crowley immensely. When she'd stopped wheezing long enough to sip some water, he held the cup to her lips.

Edith lay there afterwards, utterly drained. "I'll be all right, just give me a moment," she said in response to Crowley's questions.

Her vital signs were displayed on a monitor, and suddenly Crowley noticed that they'd grown distressingly weak.

"Mr. Crowley," she murmured. "I feel…I feel I'm fading. Dying."

"What? _Now_?" He had _not_ signed up for this, he thought angrily. Care for the sick, that was the job the angel had given him—not presiding over somebody's deathbed! But underneath his anger Crowley felt an emotion that was hard to identify. He thought it might be sadness.

"I've lived long, and I've seen many deaths…young man. I know…I think...I'm dying."

He looked wildly around the room, hoping for support, but they were completely alone.

"I'm just…I'll be right back, I'm going to go get—"

"Please stay," she murmured, grabbing onto his hand. "They can't do anything about it, so just…stay...with me."

He did _not_ have a lump in his throat, he told himself furiously. "Sure," he said, squeezing her bony hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Mr. Crowley…I'm afraid. I'm so afraid to die." She broke down then. She was too weak for her sobs to be louder than a whisper, but tears streamed down her emaciated face.

"Hey. Hey, don't be—don't be afraid," Crowley said desperately. He blessed under his breath; this was hard. What was he supposed to _say?_ "It's going to be all right."

After a moment the sobs wracking her thin frame stopped. She simply looked…tired. Bone tired. She smiled wistfully up at him. "That's nice of you to say, but…you can't really know that."

He floundered, trying to think of a reply. Bless it, this was the bloody angel's area of expertise; what the hell was he, a _demon_, doing trying to ease a woman's passing? Come on, come on, he thought frantically; what would Aziraphale say?

Aziraphale would try to reassure her, to comfort her. He found himself mimicking the angel's speech when he spoke again.

"Listen. There _is_ a Heaven, my dear. And I promise you that you will go there, and be…and be at peace. …With Vincent."

Her eyes, even now retaining their brightness, peered at him quizzically. "How do you…know?"

Crowley glanced around again; the room was empty and the door was shut. Gently, he removed his hand from hers and stepped back. There, in a cramped hospital room with bare walls and a fading pulse displayed on a monitor, a demon unfurled his wings for the sake of a dying old woman, and they were as glorious as any angel's.

He didn't even care that his jacket was ripped.

Her breath caught, and her eyes widened. Then she visibly relaxed, her brow smoothed of all the wrinkles the passing years had etched there, and a blissful smile came to her lips.

"Thank you," she breathed.

He sat back down beside her, his wings still out, and she grasped both his hands with the dregs of her ebbing strength. He watched as the light in those calm brown eyes, fixed so trustingly on his own golden ones, faded, and he felt the spirit drift quietly away from those old, old hands.

Long minutes passed, in which a thin figure with drooping wings sat over the lifeless form of a woman forgotten by the world. Then Crowley stood up, refolded his wings, willed his suit to mend itself, and stepped into the hallway to call for a doctor.

* * *

Footnotes:

*Who had swaggered in claiming to have made an appointment, and though neither Klima nor his secretary could recall ever having penciled him in, when he checked his calendar there it was, "Anthony J. Crowley, Tuesday at 4 p.m.," written out in his own distinctive scrawl.

**A little over a year later, Crowley would invite the angel over for a movie night, bribing him with brownies and ice cream to make sure he'd come. Aziraphale would dutifully sit through the strange American action film, wondering why his counterpart had chosen to watch _this_ movie, and why he was shifting about so restlessly on the sofa next to him. Finally, about halfway through the film, Aziraphale would do a double take, staring in shock at the screen as a familiar dark figure swaggered into the scene. "Crowley…?" he'd ask in bewilderment, as the demon dissolved into giggles beside him.

***Crowley was all for keeping things tidy, keeping his flat much neater than Aziraphale kept his dusty bookshop; but the excessively antiseptic environment of a hospital always left him feeling slightly woozy—too much in tune with the whole "cleanliness is next to godliness" thing to be healthy for a demon, he supposed.


	4. Chapter 4 (Last Part)

_Author's Note: This is the final part to this fic; I wanted to hurry things along so that I could wrap things up before heading off to England._

_Not to nag, but it would mean the world to me if everyone who reads this would leave a quick review, just to let me know how I'm doing with this whole writing thing. I'm still pretty new at creating my own fanfiction, and every bit of feedback helps me understand how I can improve._

_But even if you don't leave a review, I want you to know how grateful I am to everyone who's read this thing to the very end! Thanks a bunch!_

* * *

**Chapter Four: Rearranging Things**

Crowley scowled as his call was put through to voicemail, _again_. "Aziraphale, you _ssstupid_…just pick up your bloody phone already," he hissed and hung up.

He'd called three times in the past two hours, the time since Edith's death. He felt a little foolish—what was he going to do, talk about his _feelings_ with the angel? Why was he so hung up about some woman's death anyway? Humans died every day; it was practically what they were best at.

He couldn't explain _why_, but he felt an inexplicable need to discuss it anyway, to tell someone, anyone, about that clever woman with the lively brown eyes. And Aziraphale was the only one he _could_ tell.

He wondered vaguely why the angel wasn't answering his calls…probably too busy playing Mother Teresa to be bothered by a demon, he supposed.

He realized he didn't even know where he was; he'd stepped out of the hospital and just kept walking, blindly, letting his feet take him wherever they chose, ringing up the angel every now and then as he wandered along.

He was in downtown Los Angeles now, he discovered. Not far from the airport.

The airport…

He pulled out his phone again and waited impatiently as it rang until it went to voicemail.

"Hey, angel. I'm going to be in Sydney tomorrow. Meet me outside the Opera House at noon." He paused, then added, "if you're not too busy." He paused again. "Actually, busy or not, you'd better show up, angel. See you then."

He headed into the airport to see what flights were available for Australia.

…

It was closer to one the next afternoon when Crowley, lounging in front of the Sydney Opera House, spotted the angel scurrying toward him.

Aziraphale didn't look well. There was a washed-out look to his golden hair, and his curls were hanging rather limply, lacking their usual bounce. He had the unhealthy, undernourished look of one who had lost too much weight in too short a span of time. And when he reached the demon and offered him a smile, his eyes didn't sparkle as brightly as they usually did.

"You look terrible, angel," Crowley said in way of greeting.

"Yes, well, I've been busy, you called me away from a simply ghastly typhoid outbreak in Indonesia…my dear, you look rather unwell yourself," Aziraphale said, looking the demon over worriedly.

"Yeah, well, don't worry about me," Crowley said hurriedly. All thoughts of unloading his troubles on Aziraphale vanished; the poor bastard looked about ready to fall over where he stood. "You know me, nothing gets me down for long; it's you I'm concerned about. You've been overworking yourself, angel, and you _know_ you promised me you wouldn't. Have you rested _at all_ since our last phone call?"

Aziraphale shifted guiltily. "Er…"

"Well, you're taking a break today, and no objections. I've got us tickets to Verdi's _The Force of Destiny_—remember good old Verdi? He was an interesting character." He slung his arm over Aziraphale's shoulders and led the angel to the entrance of the Opera House. "And afterwards we'll go get outrageously drunk—what's a vacation without a dash of debauchery, after all?"

…

Aziraphale fell asleep halfway through the second act. Crowley looked over fondly as the angel began to snore (_virtue is ever vigilant, yeah right_), and nudged him awake before the people around them could put up fuss. They slipped out after the act was over, leaving Leonora to pine away in her monastery.

They found a place to purchase two bottles of vintage wine and then they wandered into a small park and settled down in the grass beside a pond. There weren't many other people there, it being a weekday, and the sun shone amiably down on them from among scattered clouds in an azure sky.

Crowley let Aziraphale lead the conversation, content to listen while guzzling down as much wine as he could. He didn't feel such a strong need to talk about Edith anymore; simply being in the angel's presence seemed to have a healing effect on his troubled mind.

After a while Aziraphale either ran out of things to ramble on about or else was too drunk to say them, and they lay in the sun-warmed grass in companionable silence.

"Hey angel, hey, heyangel, I wanto tell you…" Crowley trailed off, trying to sort through his hazy brain for what he wanted to say. Catching on to a wisp of thought, he continued, "I wanted ter say…I _missssed_ you." He smiled stupidly up at the blue sky.

"Me too, dear," the angel said, plucking absently at the grass.

"And I think...I think. 'S a good idea to…" Sod it, what was he trying to say again? He was distracted by a glint of light as the sun reappeared from behind a fluffy cloud.

"Wha's that, m'dear?" Aziraphale murmured.

"Oh. Right. M' idea." With an effort, Crowley collected his thoughts together. "You know how we split up the world. Sssplit it up and each went to one, to one side. Of the world."

"Yes, to accon—accomp…to do our work faster."

"Right. Well, I have a new plan. Asssira—Azir—angel, are you listening?"

Aziraphale looked up blearily from the grass he was tugging at. " 'Course I am."

"Nah, you're not…and I forget, what was I saying?" Crowley couldn't remember for the life of him. "…How 'bout we sober up?"

"Oh, all right."

The alcohol left their bloodstreams with an unpleasant prickling feeling, and then they both sat up a little from where they were slumped in the grass.

"So what were you saying, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, his voice rasping a little.

Crowley shook the last of the wine's blurring effects from his head. "I was just thinking, maybe it would be better if instead of splitting up, going our separate ways…if we stuck together?"

He hadn't been afraid to admit he'd missed the angel while he was drunk, but now he was too embarrassed to say it again. So he kept his words businesslike as he continued.

"What I mean is, I don't think you're doing that well by yourself, angel. Well, you're doing your work spectacularly, of course, but you aren't treating _yourself_ well. Your corporeal form is all worn out, Az."

Aziraphale grinned playfully at the demon. "Won't it be inconvenient for you, having to look after me on top of working all your wiles?"

"Yeah, yeah," Crowley said, "you're a big pain in my arse, angel, but hey, somebody's got to keep you from falling apart."

"I suppose we can try working together then. There can't be any harm in it." And Aziraphale didn't have to say it out loud for Crowley to hear, "We really are better off when we're together."

"Great. Now, I'm sure you'll want to hurry back to Indonesia, but too bad, we're staying here a couple more days. Then I'll go with you and we'll cure all the poor buggers." He smirked. "Crowley and Aziraphale, two occult beings circumnavigating the globe together."

"That's _ethereal _being for me, dear," Aziraphale corrected him, but only out of habit, and with a kind smile that made his blue eyes appear less tired.

They helped each other up off the grass, and stood gazing at the serene surface of the pond. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starving," Crowley said. "Let's see what sort of grub Australia's got to offer."

And side by side they ambled out of the park.


End file.
